Authors: H.A. Raynes

Nation of Enemies (37 page)

“Well done, Hannah,” he says, glancing back at her. She stares out the window. Tears streak her cheeks and run down her neck. She makes no move to wipe them away.

Karen pulls the car to a stop alongside Jonathan. Upon seeing his stepfather, he bends at the waist, hands bound together at his back, and gasps for breath. If Steven could go to him, he would. Instead he leans his head out the window.

“You're not going to shoot me again, are you?” he says.

Jonathan straightens, revealing a face streaked with tears, but he's grinning. It's the most delightful vision Steven has ever seen.

Chapter 84

S
EBASTIAN
GLANCES
INTO
the rearview mirror. The glare of oncoming headlights reveals Taylor peacefully staring out the darkened window, Sienna nestled into the curve of her body. It was disturbingly easy to slip back into the East Wing of the White House. The quiet was terrifying, as though the world had ended. He'd found Sienna where he left her in the secret room. To his surprise, she was sleeping. Her body had probably shut down after the trauma.

D.C. was in utter chaos. Sebastian took the SUV he'd driven to the White House and blazed down the streets, passing U.S. military tanks and trucks filled with troops. They were frantically scrambling to set up barricades on roads leading from the convention center and the White House. If he'd been just a minute or two later, they might not have made it out.

An hour ago Taylor awakened, groggy and confused. When she saw Sienna next to her, her body shook as she gathered her into her arms and they embraced in a tangle of arms and emotion. They haven't let go since.

The country road they're on has little traffic. By now, he knows, all major highways have been shut down by the military, but there's not enough manpower to cover the side roads. He wonders if Cole and Lily got out all right, if they've landed already. A little while ago he told Taylor everything that had happened since she was drugged. She listened without comments or questions. And though she can clearly see they're heading south, she hasn't asked about their destination.

In his lap, Sebastian's right hand throbs from the bullet that pierced it. Wrapped tightly in a white T-Âshirt, it's now stained a rust color from dried blood. Despite the pain, a part of him is glad. Glad the cross tattoo will be obscured by the scar that will remain. A lifetime of memories in his hand.

It will be several hours before they reach the Outer Banks, and after that it shouldn't take long to find a willing captain with a boat to ferry them away. Plane travel will be suspended by now, but it should be easier to travel by boat. The coast guard and navy will be on alert, but they simply can't cover the expanse of the Atlantic. A small fishing boat should do the job. And money will speak volumes to a fisherman.

“Will?” Taylor's voice is hoarse, weak.

Their eyes connect in the rearview.
Will
. It's all still lies.

“Can we go somewhere sunny?” she asks. It's a child's question, a simple request based purely on want, not need.

“You read my mind.” He grins. Given what they're escaping, they should be granted asylum. Not to mention they all have clean MedIDs. “British Virgin Islands?”

“Yes.” Her head lolls back on the seat. “Virgin Gorda. Tortola. Anegada.”

It feels like a dream to talk of such things. Too simple, that after everything that's happened they can be transported to a land without politics or terror, bullets or bombs. A twinge in his chest, a flash of Kate's face. She'd want this for him. A new life. Maybe even a family.

“I can sell my art to tourists.” Taylor's eyes are closed now, daydreaming.

“There's something you should know.” He positions the mirror so he can see her better. “My name isn't Will Anderson.”

Taylor leans forward, rests her hand on his shoulder. “I've had enough truth for a lifetime. I don't need to know your real name to know who you are.”

He stares at their headlights on the road ahead. His family in Buenos Aires must be watching the news, must think he's dead. In many ways, it's like Sebastian Diaz died along with Kate, died along with his passion to defend a country corrupt to its core. Will Anderson only existed as an assignment, someone who witnessed too much death and horror. Maybe she's right.

“I like the name on my new MedID,” she says. “Starting now, I'm Cleo Mason. And this is my daughter, Sophie.”

The name on his new chip, courtesy of Cole, is in honor of Boston and of his partner. Yet another identity, but this one he'll easily remember. “Nice to meet you, Cleo. Name's Logan Renner.”

“Logan Renner.” She reaches over the seat, lays her hand gently against his cheek. He kisses her palm.

Sienna stirs, restless. “Are we there yet?”

“Not yet,” he says.

Taylor settles back on the seat and sings softly. The tune calms the little girl, and him as well. Logan Renner, he thinks to himself. Who is he, or who will he be? It's not a question he needs to answer now. Time will tell.

T
HE
SU
DDEN
,
JARRING
motion of the plane's wheels hitting the tarmac make Cole grip the armrest of his window seat. He pushes up the oval shade to reveal a leaden sky, dampened asphalt, and green grass in the distance. It's been twenty years since he and Lily have seen her cousins and this city they'll now, finally, call home. London. He rubs his eyes, which sting from the stale air and the emotion of the past several hours.

Three hours into the flight, seat monitors displaying news networks had suddenly interrupted programming to report a large-Âscale terrorist attack on the United States. At precisely midnight, Eastern Standard Time, a wave of choreographed assassinations had swept the country, aimed at both newly elected and former administration officials.

Shrieks, cries, denials had filled the air. ÂPeople frantically tried to call, text, or email loved ones. Cabin air grew ripe with nervous sweat, the space suddenly claustrophobic. Some passengers fainted in the commotion.

From what Cole learned, officials confirmed at least sixty deaths, but with updates coming hourly, sources said the actual number was likely to surpass initial reports. Shaky phone videos displayed footage taken at campaign parties where darkness fell, followed by gunshots and explosions. One reporter said the collective hope of the United States was with the Secret SerÂvice, who likely executed an escape for both President Clark and President-Âelect Richard Hensley, along with the vice president and the vice presidentâelect. Then the pilot disconnected all incoming plane communications in the cabin.

He'd tried to call Steven and Karen, but it was no use. Throughout the plane, voices shouted out names of known terroristsâÂincluding Reverend Mitchell and BASIAâÂalong with conspiracy theories rooted in their very own government. His thoughts turned to Sebastian, where he was when it all went down.
If he's still alive.
And have Steven and Jonathan been reunited? Perhaps he'll never know.

Eventually, the crew turned down the lights and Âpeople quieted. Worry and his imagination kept him awake through the flight. The War at Home changed in one night, and left a revolution in his wake. There are no winners, not yet.

Beside him, Ian sleeps. In the aisle seat, Lily cradles Talia, her downy head resting against Lily's chest. He studies his wife. She's still beautiful, but something about her has changed. As though ten years passed in six months. Fine lines like parentheses curve around her mouth, and her ivory skin creases at the outer edge of her eyes, even when she's not smiling. He imagines she thinks the same about him.

“I love you, Lily.”

“I love you, too.”

They both smile weakly. A
ding
sounds as the pilot comes over the speakers and, in an English accent, welcomes the native citizens home.

“For those of you who are United States citizens, I'd like to extend our deepest sympathies on behalf of myself, your copilot, and your crew.” The pilot's tone is grave. “All passengers need to be aware that flights originating in the U.S. will be met at the gate by military officers. It's standard procedure when an event like this takes place. They'll be interviewing everyone before allowing you to leave the airport. It's for your own safety, and for the safety of England. I'm sure you understand.”

The plane taxis to the gate and everyone stands. Cole scans the cabin. It's the first time he's seen the faces of the passengers since the news. Cheeks streaked by tears, bodies hunched, eyes wide and alert with what he guesses is the universal look of shock. Fear hangs between them, connects them forever in this moment. The ache of it all settles in him.

He pulls Ian to him, kisses the top of his head. He has no regrets. His family is alive. No matter what was left behind, his world is right here.

Acknowledgments

T
O MY AGENT
Laura Gross who took a chance on me and who worked with ceaseless energy and enthusiasm for this book until she found it a home. Thank you to my phenomenal editor, Emily Krump, who understood my characters as though they were her own and who helped me to make
Nation of Enemies
the best book it could be.

To my unflaggingly talented writer's group, Loren Schecter, Laurie Nordman and Karen Halil-ÂMechanic, who supported me throughout the journey beginning at page one. To my friend, Celia St. Amant, always honest, always true, who has never steered me wrong in my writing and my life. To my sister, Heidi Thielen. An early reader and champion of my work, her tenacity of spirit and determination can be found woven through my characters.

Also, to my friends at L'Aroma CafÃ©. It's impossible to calculate the number of coffees and curries enjoyed within the comforting walls of this gem I like to call “my office.” Thank you for always saving me a seat.

To my eternally supportive husband, Ben, and daughters, Amelie and Ivy, who understand my passion for writing and leave me with kisses and hugs as I go off to write each weekend.

And last but not least, to my father, who told me I could be and do whatever I wanted to in life. And to my mother, for the dreams she never pursued.

About the Author

H.A. Raynes
was inspired to write
Nation of Enemies
by a family member who was a Titanic survivor and another who escaped Poland in World War II. Combining lessons from the past with a healthy fear of the modern landscape, this novel was born. A longtime member of Boston's writing community, H.A. Raynes has a history of trying anything once (acting, diving out of a plane, white water rafting, and parenting). Writing and raising children seem to have stuck.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

NATION
OF
ENEMIES
. Copyright Â© 2015 by Holly Raynes. All rights reserved under International and Pan-ÂAmerican Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-Âbook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-Âengineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperÂCollins e-Âbooks.

EPub Edition AUGUST 2015 ISBN: 9780062417695

Print Edition ISBN: 9780062417701

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